The best of motives
by labyrinth38
Summary: Wilson returns home after a 6 months working stay in Europe to learn of some changes in his best friend's life. A well intentioned intervention leaves House struggling to cope with the consequences. - House/Wilson friendship fic. No slash! Hurt/comfort
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: My very first multi-chapter fic... Hope you enjoy! :)**

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"House! Wait..." Wilson grabbed the sleeve of his friend's jacket, bodily forcing him to stop running away from him. – Which he had successfully been doing, ever since the oncologist had returned from his 6-months working stay in Europe three days ago.

"I'm sick of trying to talk to you, while you're trying to avoid me... – What's wrong with you?" Even though he didn't mean just that, he nodded towards the other man's crutches.

House pulled his face into a comic grimace. "Why, Jimmy! What is wrong with _you_?!"

Wilson rolled his eyes at his friend's antics, completely ignoring his attempt to avoid this particular conversation. "Did you somehow…" he gestured slightly towards the other man's right side "…injure yourself?"

House shrugged almost casually. "Nope! This is me _uninjured_." With that, he continued his way towards his office.

Wilson followed him. "Then why – "

House immediately interrupted him again. "Going a little easy on the leg... Don't you always tell me to do that?" Not really a question.

He entered the conference room, where his three younger co-workers were already waiting for him, throwing Wilson a last short glance.

"Sorry. Got work to do. You might remember: Sick people and all..." With that he simply shut the door in Wilson's face.

* * *

When he returned a couple of hours later, intending to confront his friend again, Cameron, Foreman, and Chase were still in the conference room, while House himself was nowhere in sight. The blinds to his office were drawn.

Wilson eyed the younger medics questioningly, a half-confused, half-worried expression on his face. "What the hell is wrong with him?"

All eyes turned towards him.

After a moment of slightly uncomfortable silence, it was Cameron who answered his question. "He's off the narcotics."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "What?!" That was _definitely_… unexpected.

Foreman now got up from his chair, turning towards the coffee machine. "Cuddy made him choose between the _pills_, and his _job_. – He obviously chose working here."

Wilson just stared at him, still completely stunned. "What… I mean… – How's it been going?" His voice reflected both shock and a trace of excitement.

The three younger medics seemed to grimace almost simultaneously.

It was Chase who finally replied in a careful tone, nodding towards the door to House's office. "He's been in a lot of pain..."

Foreman added meaningfully: "He already sold his bike. – And his car..." Ignoring Wilson's slight wince, he calmly continued: "He's hiding in his office most of the time. Refuses to do more than an hour of clinic duty a day. He's obviously unable to stay on his feet for more than a couple of minutes at a time."

Wilson paled at the information. "And Cuddy's going through with this?!"

Chase shrugged at that, searching the other man's gaze. "They're not talking."

Wilson could imagine...

He now determinedly approached his friend's office door. The moment he tried to open it and found he couldn't, Chase spoke again.

"It's locked. – He didn't seem to be feeling well earlier..."

Without replying anything, Wilson now knocked loudly. "Open up, House! Come on... I'm not going away." Silence.

Cameron, Chase, and Foreman exchanged glances.

Then Wilson turned towards them again. "What's he on now..."

Cameron quietly replied after another moment: "Paracetamol, anti-inflammatories and an anti-convulsant."

Wilson started to rub his neck, a frown of concern by now creasing his forehead. "Which ones exactly..."

A small shrug. "I think Naproxen and Neurontin right now..."

Not replying anything at first, Wilson briefly closed his eyes. Then he met Cameron's concerned gaze, voice once again determined.

"I'm getting a key."

* * *

**tbc... :)**


	2. Chapter 2

When Wilson returned with the key, he once again approached his friend's office door.

"House? I'm coming in now..." He knocked again, once, before simply unlocking the door and entering.

He found the other man in his recliner, bad leg elevated and supported by a large cushion, face pale and sweaty.

He quickly closed the door behind himself.

House slowly opened his eyes at the sound, grimacing as soon as he spotted the other man. "Wilson... Can we do this a bit later? Right now I'm not feeling so hot..." As if to emphasize his point, he hastily grabbed the trashcan next to his chair and started to retch, finally producing a small amount of bile. "Sorry..." He sank back in the chair as soon as the retching had stopped.

A bit unsure how to react, Wilson hesitantly approached his friend, gently taking hold of one of his wrists to get his pulse.

House weakly pulled his arm back. "I'm fine. Just a little nauseous..."

Wilson opened his mouth to reply something, but the other man beat him to it. "Can we talk later? I'm not having such a good day..." He sounded absolutely exhausted, his tone completely devoid of his usual snark.

Wilson nodded. "We don't need to talk right now. But let me give you a lift home, okay? It's time anyway..."

House weakly shook his head. "Not going home today..."

Wilson's response was immediate. "Oh yes, you are. Come on, House... Get up." His tone did not leave much room for protest. He handed his friend the crutches.

When the other man hesitated to take them, Wilson's gaze softened. "Can you get up?" He asked quietly after a moment of silence.

Only now meeting his concerned gaze, House replied with a hesitant nod. "I'm… - I think so." He sounded strangely defeated. – Wilson, for some reason, had to fight back tears.

"Okay, then… Come on. You can rest once we get you home. You'll be much more comfortable in your bed."

House finally gave another small nod, using both hands to carefully lift his leg down from its elevated position. – Wilson only now noticed that the right foot was shoeless and swollen.

Instead of putting on the shoe now, House simply stuffed it into his backpack. When he pushed himself to his feet with obvious difficulty, Wilson wordlessly grabbed the bag to carry it for him.

On their way to the car, House's right foot barely touched the ground.

. . . . . . .

The drive to House's apartment was a quiet affair.

When Wilson had wordlessly helped his friend out of the car and accompanied him into the house, the older man immediately sank down on the sofa, lying back and bringing his bad leg up again. A low moan escaped him, seconds before the thigh muscles went into full spasm.

Wilson once again had to force himself out of his shock-like state, quickly hurrying to his friend's side. House was arching his back against the pain by now, both hands gripping the thigh so hard, that his fingers were white. – He had already bitten his lower lip bloody.

Wilson hadn't seen his friend spasm that badly in years; it took him almost 10 minutes of firmly massaging the cramping tissue to finally get the muscle to relax once more.

House was gasping for breath and trembling uncontrollably by now.

When he finally met Wilson's pained gaze, his expression was almost apologetic. "Guess I overdid it a bit today… Not quite used to how touchy it has become…"

This time, Wilson felt the tears welling up.

* * *

The next morning, his first way led him to Cuddy. He eyed her disbelievingly, tone intense.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

She simply raised an eyebrow, replying in a calm voice. "Do you mean... House?"

Wilson didn't even bother to answer. "You can't just take a pain patient off long-term narcotic treatment, and then simply leave him to his _fate_!"

Cuddy's second eyebrow joined the first. "I didn't _just_ do anything! And I have certainly not 'left him to his fate'..."

Wilson snorted at that, concern for his friend over-riding all attempts at diplomacy he would usually have made when talking to his boss. "Well, you certainly don't adequately monitor his _condition_, if you don't even talk to him..."

She smiled at that. "I am monitoring everything I need to. He's working. He hasn't called in sick _once_ during the last couple of months." A slight shrug. "He's fine."

Wilson gave a pained half-laugh at that. "He's not _fine_..." He approached her desk now. "He's in huge amounts of _pain_! You can't just leave chronic pain undertreated like that! – Do you have any idea what depression rates and suicide statistics look like in patients with uncontrolled chronic pain?!"

This time it was Cuddy's turn to snort. "It's not uncontrolled... And it's not like I have left him _alone_ with this! – I'm his prescribing physician! He came to me _twice_ to tell me the meds weren't working. I rearranged the combination twice. Now he's been on the new one for almost three months, and he didn't come to me again. – He's _working_. He wouldn't be if the pain was that bad..."

She went on almost passionately. "And I told him I'd give him something stronger intra-thecally, if the pain ever got too bad. – He didn't come _once_ to ask me for this."

Wilson shook his head, commenting very quietly, as if to himself: "Of course he wouldn't..."

Then, facing Cuddy once more: "You clearly don't give him the assistance he needs to control the pain. – You need to monitor his condition much more _closely_. You can't just evaluate how he's doing by the days he's missing out on work! You need to get daily pain-levels, depression scores... Stuff like that!"

Cuddy calmly returned his accusing gaze. "I don't need to hear his pain-level in _numbers_, when I see that he's working as efficiently – if you want to call it that – as ever before. He comes to work every day. His mortality rate hasn't increased a _bit_. – Granted, he's loading more of his clinic hours onto his lackeys, but frankly: If it helps prolong his _life_... So be it!" She shrugged again, then stood up as well.

"And I'm surprised you're complaining anyway... You've been bugging him about getting off the Vicodin for _years_! You should be happy!"

He met her gaze, an unreadable expression on his face.

"I wanted him to cut back on the narcotics. – I wanted him to maybe supplement the Vicodin with something milder. Get on a mix of drugs that would overall go easier on his liver and be less addictive. – But I never wanted him to get off the narcotics altogether! I wouldn't want him to be forced to give up any more of his life than he already had to...! – He sold his bike, and even his _car_! He's on _crutches_! He can't even stay on his feet for more than a couple of _minutes_ at a time, for Christ's sake...!"

Cuddy looked shocked for a second, but quickly covered the reaction up again. "It was never responsible of him to drive under the influence of narcotics anyway..."

Wilson shook his head at that, looking down, not meeting her gaze again.

Cuddy now switched her tone to pacifying. "Listen, Dr Wilson. You've only seen him for a day or two. Why don't you give this a chance? Observe for a while... Maybe you've just picked a bad week for your return; maybe he's overall coping better than you think!"

He slowly looked up at her again, a mixture of doubt and sorrow dominating his features. "Maybe..." He sounded resigned. "At least let me handle his PRN medication from now on..."

Shaking his head slightly, and clearly still unsatisfied with the situation, Wilson slowly left her office.


	3. Chapter 3

Wilson decided to pick House up for lunch the next day. When he suggested they could go down to the cafeteria together, his friend simply shook his head.

"Sorry; can't. No time for something as insignificant as _eating_, when you've got all those _lives_ to save… – You'd know what I mean, if it weren't for the fact that there are not many lives to _save _where you work..."

The oncologist rolled his eyes at that, even though he was actually glad that the familiar sneer had returned to his friend's tone.

"Come on House. You could do with getting out of here for a while... Just half an hour or so. A quick sandwich."

The other man stubbornly shook his head again. "Can't go…" Voice light. "I'm simply needed too _badly _round here…" The words were accompanied by an appropriately comic grimace.

Wilson took a moment to critically eye his friend. He was sitting at his desk, obviously working, his bad leg once more elevated on a stool in front of him. – At least he was wearing a shoe again today...

Trying to read between the lines, he decided to simply buy a couple of sandwiches, chips, and juice in the cafeteria and bring everything back up for House and himself.

They ate in companionable silence until House swallowed down a couple of paracetamol with a gulp of his apple juice.

Wilson nodded towards the medication, choosing his words carefully. "Wanna talk about this now?"

"I'd rather talk about all the nurses down in good ole Europe!" House wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Hope little Jimmy didn't have to stay with big Jimmy all _alone_ all this time..."

Wilson returned a small smile, but his gaze remained serious. "Can you give me the range of your pain-rating on an average day under the new medication?"

House's expression didn't change. "What... No 'Naughty-nurses-gone-abroad' special edition?!"

The younger man held his gaze. "Range, House. Please..."

House rolled his eyes in response, a hint of resignation replacing the humor in his tone. "5 to 8."

Wilson raised an eyebrow at the information. "You reach an _8_ on an _average_ day?!" Incredulously.

No reply.

"So, you reach an 8 on a practically _daily basis_...?!" Silence. – Then: "What about bad days..."

House averted his gaze at that, finally replying with obvious reluctance. "7 upwards..."

Wilson had to swallow hard. To reach an 8 was one thing, though bad enough... But to not fall below a 7 _all day_?!

"How many bad days per month. On average."

House turned towards the window at that, his voice very quiet by now. "Maybe 6."

Wilson paled. That meant more than one per week. "You need to talk to Cuddy." His voice was determined.

House kept his back turned towards his friend. "Nothing to talk about..."

Looking up at the ceiling in obvious frustration, Wilson returned almost imploringly: "House. Forget your damned... _pride_ for once and go talk to her. She needs to know how bad it is! She'd _want_ you to tell her..."

House just snorted at that, turning towards his friend again. "No, she wouldn't. The only thing she's interested in is that I'm _clean_!" His voice had become bitter by the end of the sentence. "She knows she's in control of the _only_ thing that still means something in my life, and she uses that to force me to go through with this... _charade_. She _knows_ what this is doing to me. – I'm not gonna run to her and beg her for something she won't give me anyway. Not again..." Tiredly. Bitter. Resigned.

With that House resumed eating. 'End of discussion.'...


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: In response to the question of some of my faithful reviewers: This will NOT be a slash story. Simply a friendship fic. That's just how I prefer to see the House/Wilson relationship. At least right now... :)

Now on to the story... Here's chapter 4!

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They spent the weekend together at House's apartment. After almost a week in a hotel room, Wilson's new one still wasn't ready for him to move in yet, and so he had asked his friend for a couch to sleep on for another couple of days. After a very brief moment of hesitation, House had of course assented; after all, this wasn't the first time the oncologist took temporary refuge at his place...

Saturday morning, Wilson quietly made his way back from the bathroom. He thought his friend was still asleep; at least he hadn't heard anything from the other man yet. When he passed House's bedroom, he was surprised to see him sitting on the edge of his bed through the ajar door.

Right now he was gingerly trying to place his right foot flat on the floor, grimacing and looking up towards the ceiling at the pain the attempt obviously elicited. He lifted his leg up again after a moment, until the foot was hovering just above the wooden surface.

After another minute, he stretched the leg out in front of him as far as it would go, only the heel of the foot now touching the ground. Then he started to empathically rub his thigh muscle with both hands, using long strokes to gently try to calm or relax the tissue.

Wilson somehow couldn't tear his eyes away from the heart-rending scene.

After a while, House's hands moved towards both sides of his knee, exerting carefully controlled pressure to different parts of it. Then he tried to straighten the leg out some more and, finding he still couldn't, patiently resumed the massage.

After another couple of minutes, he once more tried to bend his leg and place the foot completely on the floor. This time he managed, but not without drawing his breath in sharply, obviously suppressing a moan of pain. Then he hesitantly reached for his crutches and pushed himself to a standing position with what seemed like an effort.

Wilson quickly retreated into the kitchen…

When House exited the bathroom again about an hour later, he was freshly showered and fully dressed. He joined Wilson, who was by now sipping his third cup of coffee leaning against the kitchen counter.

"Missed the blow-drying today!" House declared, immediately making his way over to the coffee machine.

Quickly translating the statement back from Housian to English, Wilson just rolled his eyes. "Good morning to you, too, House."

Having poured himself half a cup of coffee, the diagnostician left one of his crutches leaning against the kitchen counter, while using the other one to make two half-hopping steps towards the kitchen table. Then he sat down on one of the kitchen chairs, and – with what seemed like an almost subconscious routine by now – immediately lifted his right leg up onto one of the other chairs, elevating it in front of himself once more before starting to sip his coffee.

At that moment, Wilson was glad House's back was turned towards him, so his friend couldn't see the look of pain that crossed the oncologist's features.

Without the narcotics, the other man's leg seemed virtually _useless_, still dictating everything House was or wasn't doing. And the fact that he _immediately _elevated it somewhere _whenever _he sat down spoke volumes about the amount of agony it had to be causing the diagnostician whenever he _didn't _do just that.

Right now, Wilson couldn't fight the painful thought that his friend would probably be much more mobile and independent _without _the leg. A wave of unwanted dismay swept over him.

He was abruptly startled out of his anguished contemplation by House's sonorous baritone. "I wouldn't be able to hear your thoughts more loudly if you were shouting them through a megaphone. – Stop staring at me."

Wilson blinked, reflexively following the command and concentrating on his coffee cup again. House turned towards him.

"This is the best choice I had, Wilson. I don't need your pity."

The oncologist immediately raised a hand in a defensive gesture. "House, I don't p... - "

The other man interrupted him. "I can feel your... _compassion_... when I'm not even in the same room with you! Save it for someone who actually _needs _it, like all those bald-headed kids of yours for example. It is not welcome here, and you should know that."

Searching for the right words for a moment, Wilson silently eyed his friend. Then, calmly: "House. What you're seeing here is _concern,_ not _pity_. You're my _friend_; I care about you... That's all."

House narrowed his eyes at that, fixing his intense gaze on the oncologist. Then, suddenly, the tension left his face, and he gave an almost imperceptable nod, apparently satisfied with what he had read on the other man's face. "Okay then!" Tone suddenly perfectly light. He resumed sipping his coffee.


	5. Chapter 5

House didn't leave the apartment once all weekend. In fact, he barely got up at all. He read medical journals, listened to old jazz records, or watched TV most of the time, his leg almost always elevated somehow.

He used the crutches whenever he had to get up, bearing very little weight on his bad leg at all times.

He didn't touch the piano once, which was puzzling since music was the only hobby House relentlessly pursued, and playing the piano with almost the skill of a concert pianist was usually his favorite recreational outlet when at home.

With an unpleasant jolt of understanding, Wilson suddenly realized that he probably wouldn't be able to use the main pedal in his current condition. If he had trouble placing his foot flat on the ground, he most _certainly_ wouldn't be able to repeatedly press down the heavy pedal with this foot. He also probably wouldn't be able to sit on the piano bench for more than a couple of minutes at a time.

Wilson briefly closed his eyes and had to once more force himself to concentrate on the _virtues_ the current arrangement hopefully had for his friend. Which were right now: the job he needed; and in the long run: a longer life. Probably by _decades_ if one roughly extrapolated the damage House would soon have done to his liver, had he continued the way he'd been going before Wilson's trip to Europe...

But a life without his music? Without his bike or even a car? Without the ability to really move, or to at least _sit_ for a while without his leg causing him agony?

For some reason it seemed unacceptable to Wilson that his friend should be permanently deprived of the very few remaining things that had still brought him pleasure in the years since the infarction.

It had been bad enough to see how much the other man's world had narrowed in because of the damage to his leg – and now this? Even more pain? Even fewer good things to focus on? How long would this be good enough for him in order to just... continue?

A momentary surge of panic made Wilson close his eyes again, trying to calm himself. House was _not_ suicidal...

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During the following working days, the two men didn't see much of each other. House had another unusually complicated case, and Wilson was very busy re-estabilishing his role as department head of oncology. They drove to work together every day, and Wilson usually picked his friend up again for the way home.

But on Friday morning, Wilson vainly waited for House to join him for their drive to work. After a while, he gave a tentative knock against his friend's bedroom-door.

"House? We're late! Come on – get up…!" No response. "House?! – You okay in there?"

Another short moment of silence, then: "Yeah… You go ahead! I'll come in later today…" His voice sounded slightly tense; carefully controlled.

Wilson knew that the diagnostician protected his privacy above all else, but this time he couldn't go along with what he knew his friend wanted.

He entered the room to find the other man lying on his bed, curled in on himself, back to the door. Both hands were holding his right leg – that was supported by an extra pillow he had shoved between his legs – in a death grip. His posture was so tense, his muscles were trembling slightly under the strain.

Biting his lip at the wave of concern that instantly flooded him, Wilson quickly approached his friend, carefully sitting down on the edge of the bed. Placing a gentle hand on the other man's right upper arm, he felt how warm and sweaty the diagnostician was even through the material of his shirt.

"Muscles or nerve pain…?" He asked quietly.

House didn't move at all, but pressed through gritted teeth: "Nerves. – I can't get up right now." Straightforward. Frustrated.

Wilson nodded. "What about some more Neurontin…"

The other man minutely shook his head in a negative response. "Already did 2400 mg…"

Grimacing in commiseration, Wilson started to rub his neck the way he always did when he was worried or nervous, trying to decide what to do. House forced himself to speak again. "I'll be okay. – Get going, you're already late. I'll come in to work later. Let my team know…" He was breathing heavily, his sentences coming in short bursts.

Wilson shook his head. "Do you think heat might help?" The older man replied with a sort of half-shrug.

When he returned with a moist heat-pad a couple of minutes later, House still hadn't moved. The oncologist sat down next to his friend again, gently touching his arm to get his attention. "Can you turn a bit…? Lie flat?" Holding his breath, House complied after a short moment of hesitation. The oncologist quickly and efficiently rearranged the supporting pillow under his friend's right knee, before wrapping the heat-pad around the painful thigh.

Concerned by _how_ labored the older man's breathing was, Wilson unobtrusively took hold of House's right wrist, checking his pulse. Way too fast...

"House…" He waited until he thought he had his friend's attention. "Do you have diazepam here…?"

The other man closed his eyes, trying to control his mimic. "Think so…" The words were forced out.

Wilson indeed found some Valium in his friend's bathroom cabinet. He returned with the medication, pensively eyeing the other man. "I want you to take one, House… 2 mg; just to help you calm down a bit." After a long moment of silence, the diagnostician finally gave a tense nod, accepting the pill his friend held out for him.

Half an hour later, House had finally started to relax a bit, the deep lines of pain gradually leaving his face. Wilson expelled the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. He slowly pulled back his hand that had still been resting on his friend's forearm. "Better…?"

The diagnostician took a deep breath and nodded, meeting Wilson's gaze for the first time today. "Yeah. – Thanks..."

Wilson answered with a weak smile. "Wanna try and sit up?"

Another nod. "I'll be fine now." The oncologist took the hint, wordlessly leaving the room to give his friend some space.

An hour later, they finally arrived at PPTH.


	6. Chapter 6

"Stop that! It was just the Neurontin… I'm fine!"

When Wilson entered the diagnostic conference room a couple of days later, House was just fending off Foreman's attempts to hold him down on one of the chairs, while at the same time trying to check out his eyes with a penlight.

"What happened…" Wilson took in the scene frowning slightly.

It was House who spoke first. "Nothing. – Just some dizziness. It's a common side-effect of the gabapentin, as our _neurologist_ here should know!"

Foreman snorted at that. "It wasn't _just some_ dizziness… - You would almost have _fallen_!" He raised the light again. "Now will you hold still, or do I have to _sedate_ you in order to check out your pupils..." Not even dignifying that comment with a response, House simply grabbed the penlight in a quick move and let it disappear in the pocket of his own jacket.

Foreman rolled his eyes, obviously unhappy with his boss's childish stubbornness. He finally stepped back from the older man, pointedly raising an eyebrow. "Okay. But at least stay put for a while. Wouldn't want you to _hurt_ yourself…" That last part came out with an undertone of unconcealed sarcasm.

After House had dismissed his three co-workers, Wilson took another chair around the conference table, eyeing his friend assessingly. "Any other side-effects from the Neurontin...?" He made a conscious effort not to sound concerned; just interested.

House met his gaze, shaking his head dismissingly. "Bit of stomach pain sometimes. Nothing serious..."

The oncologist slowly nodded. "Nausea? Or Edemas maybe?"

The other man rolled his eyes. "I'm _fine_, Wilson. No other side effects." Impatiently.

Wilson held up a hand in a placating gesture. "Okay. - That's good..." He got up to pour himself a cup of coffee.

Then, hesitantly: "I could move into my new apartment by the end of the week..."

House nodded, almost absent-mindedly. Then, obviously noticing the other man's careful tone: "What..." He raised an eyebrow. "Are you asking me if it's _okay_ for you to move out?!"

Wilson blushed slightly at that, briefly evading his friend's intense gaze. "No...! I just... thought... that maybe you'd be more comfortable having someone _around_ for a while." He shrugged, but sounded defensive.

"I don't need a nurse, Wilson."

The oncologist immediately shook his head. "No; I know... - Just thought you might need a _friend_ right now." A moment of surprised silence.

Before House could come up with a reply, Wilson spoke again, voice calm but questioning: "Why do you do this…"

House pulled his face into a comic grimace. "I didn't mean to, _Daddy_! I only do it when the other kids _tell_ me to…"

Wilson completely ignored his friend's obvious attempt to evade the conversation. "Why do you… fight so hard to pretend you're well, when you're so obviously not. Why do you suddenly just… _accept_ Cuddy's conditions. – I mean, it's not the _first _time that someone wanted you to… cut back on the Vicodin or whatever. Usually you just stubbornly _ignore_ everyone's opinion on the matter. Usually you keep on _insisting _on the necessity of the drugs until we finally _cave_. – What's changed?" The oncologist's gaze was now fixed on his friend, his expression openly curious.

House abruptly turned away from the younger man, staring out of the window instead. "She's my boss. And she was serious this time. She would have fired me; I had no choice."

Wilson's eyes narrowed; he shook his head. "That's not all." He knew the other man too well; there was more to his resigned attitude than that…

The statement was followed by long moments of silence.

Then House suddenly turned towards the oncologist again, his expression tense. "You and Cuddy… - You both have been trying to tell me for _years_ that you thought most of the pain was in my head. That I was an addict, psychologically _dependent_ on the narcotics. All the times I – " He abruptly interrupted himself, staring at the blank board for a moment. Then he met Wilson's patient gaze again, face strangely impassive. "Maybe I'm just tired of defending my pain."


	7. Chapter 7

"_Maybe I'm just tired of defending my pain."_

The words his best friend had just spoken resounded in Wilson's ears.

Had they really done that? Had they really forced House to... _side_ with the pain?! In his struggle against the ignorance of people who were supposed to be his _friends_?

The diagnostician had in the meantime used Wilson's stunned silence to lever himself to his feet.

"House – I never thought your pain was..." But his friend wasn't listening anymore. He had already reached the door to the corridor. "House!"

The door closed behind the other man, leaving a shocked oncologist in the conference room of diagnostics.

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House spent the night in his office, claiming to be busy. Wilson had wanted to talk to him again after the abrupt ending of their discussion earlier, but each time he tried they were either interrupted by someone, or his friend found some far-fetched explanation for why he had to be somewhere else entirely at this very moment...

The next morning, Wilson was unexpectedly paged to one of the regular wards on the fourth floor. He didn't have a patient there at the moment, so he immediately wondered what this could be about.

When he arrived, he instantly spotted two nurses on the corridor opposite the nurses' lounge. They were standing around someone, who was obviously sitting on one of the seats placed at irregular intervals along the wall between patient rooms. A second later, Wilson realized that it was House.

He quickly approached his friend, who was frantically rubbing his right thigh, his face a grimace of pain, pale and covered in sweat, his torso rocking rhythmically back and forth. He was half-folded over his painful leg, more or less unresponsive to what was going on around him.

Wilson nervously eyed one of the nurses. "How long has he been like this…"

She shrugged a bit helplessly. "We found him 10 minutes or so ago… He told us to leave him alone, but…"

Wilson quickly nodded. "Could you organize a wheel-chair for us, please?" More a command than a question. She nodded and quickly left.

Wilson turned towards the second nurse. "I've got it from here. Thank you…" She recognized the dismissal for what it was, nodded, and left as well.

"House…?" Wilson crouched down in front of the diagnostician, gently yet firmly grabbing the man's upper arm in a supportive gesture, trying to get his attention. "Give me a number, buddy… How bad?"

His friend didn't meet his gaze, but obediently pressed through gritted teeth: "9…"

Wilson grimaced as well at that. "Alright… We'll help you out with this. Just try to relax as much as you can right now. It'll be okay…" He kept a comforting hand on his friend's arm, praying that the wheel-chair would be there soon.

Someone seemed to listen, since the nurse arrived seconds later.

Between the two of them they managed to move the diagnostician into the chair and elevate his bad leg on the leg-rest. Giving the nurse another grateful nod, Wilson quickly wheeled House into the next examination room.

When he had managed to move the agonized man onto the room's sole gurney, he quickly pushed up his friend's soaked shirt. "Curl your back for me, House. – Yeah, that's it…"

He quickly located the vertebrae he needed for the intrathecal injection, trying not to flinch when he noticed how emaciated his friend was. He wouldn't have needed to curl his back really… All the bones stood clearly out just like that.

Forcing himself to concentrate on the more pressing matter of acute pain management once more, Wilson quickly prepared the injection site, before starting to slowly push the morphine into the spinal canal.

House started to relax almost immediately, moaning in acute relief. Tears were running down his face by now.

The oncologist started to gently stroke his friend's back in what he hoped were soothing motions, all the while unobtrusively monitoring House's respiration. Gradually, he felt the other man's muscles lose their tension, his breathing slowly evening out, breathing rate returning to normal.

Unwilling to disturb the other man's hard-won peace just yet, Wilson simply continued to rub his bony back for several minutes, giving him time to gradually center himself again and gather new strength. He only stopped, when his friend started to move slightly beneath his hands.

Slowly pulling the shirt down once more, Wilson gently addressed the other man. "Better?" House simply nodded, carefully turning onto his back. "A lot. - Thank you…"

The oncologist answered with a small smile. Then his expression sobered again. "Number?" The diagnostician gave a small shake of his head. "It's good now. About a 4…"

Wilson slowly nodded. "You wanna just lie here a while longer?" House hesitated. Then, quietly: "Maybe, yeah…"

Nodding again, the oncologist simply placed a pillow under his friend's right knee to take the strain off the thigh. The diagnostician drifted off into the deepest sleep he'd had in what felt like _months_ seconds later.

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But the pain returned.

Not as bad as it had been before, but when Wilson picked House up at his office to take him home, the morphine had clearly worn off. He was moving very carefully, his right leg not bearing any weight at all on their way to the car.

Once he had levered himself into the passenger seat, he gingerly brought his leg into a position that was the closest to comfortable he could manage right now. Still, with every pothole Wilson saw his friend tense or – with bad ones – wince when his leg was jolted.

After a couple of minutes he started to sweat, his breathing once more quickening. Shortly before they'd have arrived at his apartment, he grabbed Wilson's arm in a hectic gesture. "Pull over… – Quickly!"

The oncologist immediately brought the car to a stop on the side of the road, only to see House hastily getting out, hopping a meter or two, before starting to retch miserably. Wilson was by his side seconds later, gently holding him upright and talking to him in a calm voice.

When the nausea finally abated, House needed a moment to catch his breath. He gratefully took a sip of water from a bottle Wilson handed him, before meeting the oncologist's concerned gaze apologetically. "Sorry. It was just… - "

Wilson interrupted him. "…the pain, I know. It's okay. Nothing to be sorry for…"

After another minute: "Think you can go on now?"

House nodded, tiredly; still in pain.

When they were on the road again, the diagnostician suddenly spoke very quietly. "I can't do this, Wilson. I can't go on like this…" Too shocked to reply anything right away, Wilson reflexively sped up some more.


	8. Chapter 8

The rest of the evening had been a quiet affair. Once they had arrived at House's apartment, the diagnostician had claimed to be too tired to talk any more at the moment. He just wanted to rest, and Wilson didn't interfere with this obvious need.

The next morning, House looked a little better but informed the oncologist that he'd call in sick to get some more rest. Relieved that his friend had obviously recovered somewhat from the disastrous events of the previous day and was talking more rationally again, Wilson drove to work alone.

After two early emergency consults, his way led him directly to Cuddy's office. He entered without knocking.

"You need to stop this… intervention. Now." He fixed his gaze on his boss, voice urgent; determined.

Cuddy looked up at him, an unreadable expression on her face. When she prepared to reply something, Wilson immediately interrupted. "No, Cuddy! – He's in _incredible_ amounts of _pain_! I can't just stand by and _watch this_ any longer…"

When she stood up and rounded her desk, the oncologist simply continued: "He is barely _ambulatory_… - The pain is simply too intense for him to do much of _anything_. He has to keep the leg almost constantly elevated or he's in _agony_. – And he's long past the stage of detoxing by now, so the pain he experiences now is real. And constant. And, if undertreated like this, getting worse."

Cuddy wordlessly handed him a print-out of an email. Confused, he quickly read the few lines it showed. He instantly paled. "He has _quit_?!"

Cuddy eyed him compassionately. "He didn't tell you...?"

Wilson just shook his head, still stunned. Then, incredulously: "When did he send this…?"

Cuddy sat down on the edge of her desk. "About an hour ago." She shrugged a bit helplessly. "Of course I'm not going to _accept_ it." Then, more quietly: "I haven't talked to him about it yet."

Wilson nodded, frowning worriedly. "He told me yesterday that he couldn't go on like this. – And I think he's right. He _can't _go on like this." She eyed him patiently, apparently expecting him to continue.

"Not only can he not keep _working _in his present condition; he also practically can't do anything _else,_ when he's pretty much _constantly_ busy trying to somehow deal with the intolerable amounts of _pain_ he's in…"

Cuddy slowly nodded, looking torn; helpless; guilty. "But the medication _did _something for the pain, didn't it. – Otherwise he wouldn't have been able to show up here that regularly at all…!"

The oncologist patiently met her gaze. "With the latest combination of meds – maximum dosage he's been able to tolerate without experiencing too many side-effects – he's been hovering around a 6 or 7 most of the time. As a _baseline_, Cuddy! – And he's had some episodes of breakthrough pain. At least three since I've been back. Three I was around to _witness_ that is..."

He started to rub the back of his neck in a familiar gesture of deep concern.

"Yesterday, it was _brutal_. I had to give him an intrathecal shot of morphine to get it under control…"

When she looked shocked but didn't reply anything immediately, Wilson determinedly continued. "He's exhausted. And he's losing weight. – I don't think he can take much more of this."

He nodded towards the email printout again. "This shows us, he _definitely_ can't take much more…"

Giving another nod, Cuddy sighed almost inaudibly. "Yeah…" Then, throwing Wilson a guilt-ridden and almost desperate look: "I can't believe I didn't realise how _bad off_ he's been…! You had to come back all the way from _Europe_ first to spell it out for me... And even _then_ I didn't believe you! I thought you were just overly _worried_…"

She was getting slightly agitated. "I honestly thought he was coping _well_, and that the new arrangement would overall be a good _thing_ for him!" More quietly again: "For us… For everybody involved!"

Wilson just nodded, his voice suddenly calming. "I know you've been trying to help him. – But this is not the way to do it. We need to figure out something else."

Then, determinedly: "I'll better go to him now; see how he's doing. I'll call you later on and we can think about what to do then…"

20 minutes later, Cuddy's cell phone rang. James Wilson. She picked up. "So…?"

Barely controlled panic was the first thing she noticed in the oncologist's voice.

"He's not here."


	9. Chapter 9

30 minutes later, Cuddy and Wilson hurriedly entered the conference room of diagnostics, where three faces looked up at them with mildly questioning expressions. Cuddy addressed the younger medics seriously: "Have you seen House today?"

Chase frowned at that. "No…? – I thought he had… called in sick?"

Wilson nodded impatiently, briefly rubbing his forehead. "Yeah. Well… He's not home. – We thought he might have come in after all." He was growing more nervous by the minute.

Cuddy lightly touched his forearm in a comforting gesture. "Wilson…" Anxious eyes met reassuring ones. "He wouldn't have written that email, if he'd been planning to… do something stupid." She formulated cryptically.

Cameron was frowning as well by now. "Something stupid? – What do you mean?! Did he – "

Cuddy interrupted her. "He didn't do anything… - But we should try to find him. There's been some… confusion… and I'd like to talk to him."

Foreman raised a skeptical eyebrow at that. "Sure; so… What _did_ he do this time…?"

Wilson wearily met his gaze, starting to massage the tense muscles in the back of his neck again. "He had a very bad day yesterday. – Painwise…" The younger medics exchanged knowing looks. "He didn't… react very well to it. – We need to find him."

That seemed to be good enough for House's co-workers. "So…" Chase again, voice casual. "What's the plan?"

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The 'plan' had been simple enough: Wilson and Foreman had been sent out to check the local bars the diagnostician would be most likely to show up in; Cameron had been instructed to wait at House's apartment in case he eventually decided to return home; and Chase had been assigned with the task of calling all the hospitals in the vicinity to make sure House hadn't been involved in some sort of accident. Each of them were supposed to call Cuddy in her office as soon as they had found him.

By the end of the day, there was still no trace of the head of diagnostics.

When Wilson and Foreman were just about to admit defeat and return to the clinic for now, the oncologist's cell-phone suddenly rang. He quickly answered it. "House?!"

A hesitant voice on the other end of the line: "Uh… No. – I'm… Do you know a tall man with a leg problem?"

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When Wilson and Foreman got out of the car not even half an hour later, a middle-aged man was already approaching them, gesturing roughly into the direction of the 'man with the leg problem', who was currently sitting on a bench by the bus stop staring off into space.

"He's been sitting over there like that for _hours_! I had bus route 2 today; first saw him shortly after my lunch break. He never got on the bus, just kept sitting there doing nothing apparently... I've seen him a couple of times before, so I went to him after my shift and asked him if he was okay. – He didn't reply anything… And I was worried because of the cold, ya know. Can't be healthy to just sit there like that. Must be half-frozen to death by now…"

Wilson nodded somewhat impatiently, indicating Foreman with a small gesture of his head that he would go talk to the diagnostician.

The bus driver went on explaining: "I asked him if I could have his cell for a moment. He just nodded, so I took it. I used the speed-dial function and… I guess I reached _you_."

Wilson managed another nod and even a mumbled 'Thank you', before tipping the bus driver generously for his efforts and finally approaching his friend.

"House…?" Tone careful. He crouched down in front of the other man without touching him. His friend's coat was wet from the rain that had been coming and going all day. He was shivering slightly, but his expression was completely blank.

"House." This time Wilson risked touching the other man's forearm. His friend shifted his head slightly at that, until his eyes met the oncologist's, but his expression didn't change. He looked… completely empty somehow. Fear gripped Wilson's heart.

"House. What happened… What are you doing here?" The diagnostician simply opened his right hand that had been formed to a fist before. Wilson only now saw that he was holding something. Oh shit…

He quickly removed the vial from his friend's unresisting fingers, finding that it wasn't completely filled anymore.

Wilson could hear the panic in his own voice. "How many…?" The other man didn't react at all.

The oncologist now stood up halfway, grabbing his friend by his upper arms and giving him an urgent shake. "House! How many Vicodin _did you take_?!"

This time, the older man weakly lifted a hand in a gesture that was probably meant to be reassuring. "Didn't OD…"

Wilson relaxed slightly at his friend's mumbled words, but kept his hold on the other man, intently focussing on his face. "What happened, House? Come on; talk to me…"

The diagnostician slowly met his gaze again, his expression suddenly conveying two things Wilson had hardly _ever_ seen on his friend's face before: Helplessness and desperation. "They're not working anymore, Jimmy…"

Wilson felt his heart literally shatter into a million pieces at the hopelessness in the other man's tone, but forced himself to remain outwardly calm. "What are you talking about, House… - And where did you get these anyway?" He reflexively eyed the label affixed to the orange vial. Prescribed to his friend; by a physician whose name he had never heard before.

"Went to this medic; showed him my chart. Asked for medication and he gave it to me…" Suddenly something close to panic in his voice: "They're not working like they should… – I still can't walk on it…"

Wilson felt tears threatening to fill his eyes; he swallowed hard, trying to get a grip on his own emotions.

"House." He adopted his best 'professional physician' voice. "Listen to me." The older man met his gaze again. Good; he had his attention for now.

"It's not the Vicodin that isn't working. – You're leg is _weakened_. You've hardly been using it for months… The muscle has atrophied; that's why there's less strength and more pain. Once the muscle has been strengthened again, the Vicodin will do its job just like… before… all this."

House shook his head. "I don't…" He abruptly interrupted himself, once more sounding close to a panic. "I can't live like this… I need to - " He moved one hand towards the oncologist's trouser pocket, where he had put the Vicodin for now.

Wilson renewed the grip he still had on the other man's arms. "No! House…! It's okay; calm down… It'll be okay."

When the older man took a deep breath, apparently trying to follow his friend's instructions, Wilson crouched down in front of him again, gently grabbing both of his hands now. "Listen to me, Greg… It'll be okay. – We'll get it right this time. Just don't…"

He took a deep breath himself, trying to stay as calm and rational as possible. "Let's consult someone who's specialized on pain management. Get you on a _mix_ of drugs, _including_ narcotics. But supplemented by something that goes a little easier on your liver…"

House met his gaze, calmer now, but apparently still unconvinced.

"Please, Greg, _trust_ me. – I know I've let you down with this before, but I'm not going to do it again. I should never have given you the feeling that I doubted your pain. Or the _severity_ of the pain. I know that now…"

He continued almost soothingly: "I'll talk to Cuddy and put things straight with her... You'll get to keep your job, no matter which drugs we'll get you on."

He could see the other man was thinking, but still received no reply. He kept his gaze fixed on his friend, trying to convey his earnestness.

"You told me you were tired of defending your pain… Well, you don't have to anymore, cause I'll take care of that now. If you let me. I know you're in pain; I believe you… And we'll deal with this now the way we should have a long time ago. I should have done a lot more to help you cope long before now. Long before it could come to all of this. – I'm sorry…"

House suddenly averted his gaze at the quiet apology.

Desperately, Wilson continued: "Please give this another chance. Give _us_ another chance to figure this out with you…" Imploringly. Then, much more quietly: "Please, Greg. I only need you to _trust_ me."

He could practically _hear_ his friend's inner turmoil.

Then he decided to take a chance, gently squeezing the other man's fingers, voice calm; trusting. "Can you do that?"

House eyed him for an impossibly long moment, his gaze insecure but not as empty anymore as it had been only minutes ago. Then he suddenly returned the grip Wilson still had on his hands, giving a very small nod before once more averting his gaze. His voice was clear and steady when he finally spoke. "Yes."


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating...!! I've moved to another town and the whole thing's been keeping me kind of busy. :)

So... I hope you'll enjoy the next chapter! We're slowly but surely approaching the end of this story, but there'll be about one more chapter to come.

And before I forget: A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL OF YOU!!!

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It had taken both Wilson's and Foreman's assistance to move House into the car. His futile attempts to walk on his bad leg had left it on the verge of cramping again, and sitting in the cold for hours had done nothing for the leg's overall stiffness. They settled the diagnostician on the back seat, wrapped in Wilson's thick winter coat; he was seriously shivering by now.

Once in House's apartment, Wilson dismissed the neurologist and helped his friend get rid of his wet clothes to take a long, hot bath. If House was feeling embarrassed by any of this, he didn't show it.

When the diagnostician eventually emerged from the bathroom again, Wilson was relieved to find him looking somewhat better, if still exhausted. The hot water seemed to have done him some good; he appeared to be much calmer, more centered again.

House made it to his bed unaided, even though his pace was markedly slower than usual. Wilson quietly regarded him, trying hard to suppress a new wave of concern when he noticed how much of his friend's usual posture and demeanor was missing, how laborious every movement appeared to be. He seemed so _vulnerable_ right now. It didn't suit him...

Instead of verbalizing any of this, Wilson simply went to organize a second blanket, giving the other man some space to get settled in his bed without anybody watching him. When he returned and gently covered the diagnostician with the additional blanket, House was already half asleep. Lightly brushing the back of his hand against the older man's cheek reassured him that his body temperature was slowly returning to normal.

He quietly regarded his friend a moment longer, contemplating on whether it was a good or a bad sign that he had apparently accepted whatever was to come now so readily. He'd been so _quiet_ ever since they had left the bus stop. In fact, he had hardly said a word since then.

For once Wilson would have paid _money_ to hear one of the colorful insults the other man was so liberally distributing among whoever happened to be around... Hell, he'd even volunteer to be the _target_ of such a verbal attack right now, if only his friend would say _something_!

Wilson was interrupted in his musing by House's unusually raspy voice.

"Kind o' creepy, trying to fall asleep while you're staring at me..."

Wilson knew it was a somewhat feeble attempt to lighten the situation, but he tried a small smile in response. "I'm not _staring_ at you. – I'm just... trying to decide whether you're still dying from hypothermia, or if it's safe to assume you'll be okay for now." Tone slightly accusing.

The other man's mouth gave a tiny twitch in response. "If I'm dying, you could at least have the decency to let me do it in _peace_." Then, quietly: "I'm fine, Wilson. I just wanna get some rest..."

The oncologist nodded, almost absent-mindedly. He turned towards the door, then stopped one hand already on the handle. Without turning back towards his friend: "Can I leave you alone with this almost full bottle of a potentially lethal narcotic...?" Half-jokingly, but the underlying serious implication was clear.

A soft snort behind him was the only reply he got. He hesitated, only satisfied when the other man finally spoke again, voice heavy with fatigue: "Someone needs to stay around and keep you on your lazy toes after all..."

Wilson smiled slightly, for real this time, somehow feeling that it would be okay now. They would find a way.

They would _have _to...

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Both men had taken the rest of the week off.

The following Monday, Wilson once again found himself in Cuddy's office.

"So..." She eyed him somewhat uncomfortably. "What's the plan?"

Wilson met her inquiring gaze, his expression calm; certain. "I called in a couple of favors and got him an appointment with Dr Shaminsky." Cuddy slowly nodded. _The_ pain specialist in New Jersey.

The oncologist quietly continued: "He examined House and... made a treatment proposal."

Another more impatient nod from his boss indicated him to continue and come to the point.

"He agrees with Greg's position in that the medication will probably have to contain a narcotic. But he proposes to supplement it with something that more specifically targets the nerve pain component. – Maybe Gabapentin; but in a much lower dosage than what House has been taking recently. This way he thinks House will eventually be able to cut back on the Vicodin and avoid the side effects of the Neurontin he has been suffering lately. – He also thinks a low-dose anti-depressant might help to further alleviate some of the pain. Would help with his sleeping issues, too; certainly couldn't hurt him mood-wise…" The last part of the sentence was muttered quietly, as if to himself.

Cuddy nodded again, hesitantly, voice rough. "There's more?" The question came out wearily.

Wilson gave a very small nod. "For now, he will need some PT to get the leg back to where it was before... all this. – But he can't do this with just the Vidodin. His leg can't tolerate any sort of strain at the moment, not even with the maximum recommended dosage."

Cuddy cringed at that, guilt now openly showing on her face. "And that means...?"

Wilson met her gaze again. "He'll need to get on something stronger for now. For the rehab, until the muscle has been strengthened somewhat again. – Shaminsky thinks we should try out Percocet first; or maybe a Fentanyl patch supplemented by another short-acting narcotic."

The dean of medicine now closed her eyes. "Great...! – A little _well-meant_ intervention, and I cause him to go directly from wine to whiskey...!" Sarcastic; self-derogatory.

Wilson shook his head slightly, eyeing her with as much compassion as he was capable of at the moment. "You _did_ mean well. – And on the bright side, he'll probably be on a much more effective combination of drugs in the long run."

Cuddy nodded. "Yeah... Why not make someone _suffer_ a couple of months if it means..."

Wilson held up a hand, effectively interrupting her. "This doesn't help him."

Then, quietly: "Another thing is that he of course refuses to go somewhere stationary for further assessments and the adjustment of the meds. – He's apparently afraid to give up any _more_ control... Can't blame him really..."

His boss frowned at that. But before she could even start to voice her protests, Wilson calmly continued. "That means I'll stay with him for a while, until everything's under control. Just in case… - He's okay with it, so… that's good."

Cuddy eyed him for another long moment, her expression unreadable; then she gave him a pained half-smile. "You know…? He's really lucky to have such a good friend."

To her surprise, Wilson just shook his head smiling slightly, while at the same time looking close to tears. "He's…" He averted his gaze briefly, before meeting Cuddy's eyes again, an intense look on his face. "I'm very lucky, too." With that he turned around and left.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: So... This is it. The story's long-awaited last chapter. :) It's written as a couple of short scenes; snap-shot style. I hope you like it...

Anyway, I wanted to thank all of you who so faithfully read the story, and particularly each one of you who took the time to review! It was my first multi-chapter story, overall the second fanfic for me. It was a real adventure. Never thought I'd finish one of these... :)

So, onto the story finale... Enjoy!

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"House! Get moving already – we're late!" Wilson impatiently waited for his friend in the hall outside the apartment.

"Technically...", the diagnostician slowly made his way towards the door as well, "..._we_ are not late, since _we_ don't have a PT appointment. _I_ do."

Wilson rolled his eyes at that. "_Technically_", he handed the other man his coat, "I am _taking_ you to PT, so _technically_...", he closed the door behind them, "_we_ need to get there. – Preferably sometime in the near future..."

His eyes followed House as he made his way over to the elevator. He couldn't suppress a small smile at the way his friend was gradually starting to bear weight on his bad leg again, even if he was – by strict orders of his physiotherapist – still on crutches.

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"You sure it's such a good idea to get off the oxycodone again so soon?"

House briefly looked up from his Game Boy match, before focussing his attention on killing space monkeys again. "Yep." Tone light.

Wilson sat down in a chair across from him, his eyes never leaving his friend. "Do you experience any side-effects you haven't been telling me about?"

The diagnostician didn't take his eyes off the game. "No..." Reply deliberately short.

Wilson frowned at that. "Then why..."

His friend interrupted him impatiently, finally meeting his gaze. "Oxy's great for the pain, but it makes you feel _high_...!" Fake-amazement in his voice, his face once again drawn into a comic grimace. Then he switched his tone to sarcastic, quietly mumbling: "And who'd want _that_?" He concentrated on the Game Boy again.

The younger medic sighed. "House... It's important that you – " He was interrupted again.

"What...?!" The diagnostician angrily switched off his toy now. "You're all bugging me for years about getting off the Vicodin, and now you desperately want me to stay on something twice as strong, twice as addictive?!"

Wilson held his gaze, replying calmly: "You'll be okay with it as a short-term measure."

House nodded, impatiently. "I'm also okay with discontinuing this 'short-term measure' _now_. – I'm feeling much better. I wanna try to get back on the Vicodin."

Wilson slowly nodded, apparently not completely convinced. "What does Shaminsky have to say about that..."

The older man just shrugged, pushing himself to his feet. "He thinks it's great! - As long as I don't slack on my rehab of course..."

Wilson nodded again. "Which you won't..." Half-statement, half-question.

His friend met his concerned gaze, tone serious for once. "Which I won't."

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"You okay...?" Wilson worriedly took in the small splint that was covering his friend's left wrist.

The older man just nodded, stoically continuing to methodically eat his Reuben. "Fine! Stop acting like my Mum, Wilson..."

Simply ignoring the expected reproof, the oncologist kept his eyes on the apparent injury. "Then why the bandage..." He searched his friend's gaze now.

House rolled his eyes at that. "Latest fashion. – I'm serious, Wilson. Just let it go..."

But the oncologist wasn't to be deterred. "Did this happen during PT?" No reply. "You at least sure that nothing's broken?"

Resigned, House put his sandwich down, obviously forcing himself to patience. "Yes. – I'm _not _sure, however, how long _you'll_ still be able to say that about all of _your_ bones..."

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"I'd never have thought that he'd voluntarily get on an antidepressant…"

Wilson calmly met Cuddy's gaze. "Why not?" He handed the charts he had just signed to one of the nurses. "There are several studies indicating a beneficial effect of SSRIs on the management of chronic pain, so why shouldn't he try it...?"

She slowly nodded, voice curious. "And is it helping any?"

Wilson shrugged slightly. "Seems to be. – Certainly helps him sleep better. His appetite also seems improved; finally… Was about time; he needs to regain some of that weight."

Another nod from his boss.

"Shaminsky wants to up the SSRI some more, now that he's off the oxycodone. Then we'll see how much of the pain-relief is actually caused by the antidepressant. How much it might help him cut back on the Vicodin."

Cuddy was still watching him intently, studying his expressive body-language. "And your living-arrangement? Working out so far?"

Wilson smiled slightly at that. "Yeah. Works surprisingly well actually. – Though he doesn't really let me help much. You know how he is… Sometimes I think I'm there more for my _own_ sake than for _his_. At least I can keep an eye on him like this…"

Cuddy returned a small smile.

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When House was at his piano again for the first time, Wilson pretended to still be engrossed in some medical journal, while in fact listening intently to the beautiful melody the diagnostician was coaxing out of the instrument. The improvised piece was followed by long moments of silence, during which Wilson continued to pretend reading, while the older man absent-mindedly played with the glass of scotch he had set down on top of the piano earlier.

When he finally spoke, his tone was conspicuously neutral: "You know what...?"

The oncologist looked up at his friend, eyes questioning.

House didn't meet his gaze. "It's a good thing you didn't stay in Europe..." His voice was gruff.

Wilson looked puzzled for a moment, then started to smile slightly as soon as he had once more translated the words into what he knew his friend was trying to say. "You're welcome, House..."

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Gregory House was not a happy camper. He irritatedly entered Wilson's office shortly before lunch.

"Guess what I found on my desk this morning..." He forcefully put a journal down in front of the oncologist.

Wilson shrugged, pseudo-casually. "So what... A motorbike mag."

House nodded impatiently. "Yeah..." A disgruntled snort. Then: "_Somebody_ thought they should mark some of the offers for me..." Tone an interesting mixture of sarcastic and accusing.

Wilson tried to look innocent, but then just smiled, shrugging again. "I heard conditions were exceptionally good for personal loans right now."

His friend looked very surprised for a moment, to say the least. "Are you suggesting I should buy a new motorcycle? For me to drive?" Disbelieving.

Wilson deliberately met the older man's gaze. "Whatever makes you happy..." He quickly finished with a shrug, trying to appear more casual than he felt right now.

House seemed stunned for a moment, then suddenly grinned. "I _knew_ you'd get there, eventually. It's just _too cool_, isn't it."

The oncologist smiled warmly at him. "Yeah. – It is."

The end


End file.
